Merry Christmas, Mr Wayne
by Gaara and his Little Panda-kun
Summary: An old high-school friend shows up once more in Bruce Wayne's life, and Christmas becomes even more hectic than he thought possible. Slight past JokerXBatman. To all my Bystander readers!
1. Story

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Wayne"  
>by Gaara and his Little Panda-Kun<p>

_An old high-school friend shows up once more in Bruce Wayne's life, and Christmas becomes even more hectic than he thought possible. Slight past JokerXBatman._

_A/N: Christmastime is heeeere… XD Alright, guys, here's the deal. I fail at life, so __Bystander __shall not be updated before the New Year. ^.^' I wrote you this as an apology, almost hoping that half of my Zelda readers enjoy Batman as well—and if not, well, don't I just suck?_

_I actually put Bruce through a normal high-school, living with Alfred and all that. I was just wanting to let you guys know that, especially because it's probably not canon or comic-compatible._

_Hope you enjoy it! :D_

The rooftop was dark. The city was not lit from below, as it normally was, especially considering the time of year. Usually, citizens got around to decorating their homes and apartments for Christmas right after Thanksgiving; and it was a few weeks after that, the twenty-third of December. However, the city was completely darkened, save the lights of the cars that ran below, and the sound of tires squealing as people tried to return home without traffic lights occurred more often than it used to, but not by much.

What caused the blackout? Why, the Joker, of course.

He was lounging on the edge of a building, eating what appeared to be a cluster of cherries, spitting the pits over the edge and grinning sardonically at the Batman standing across from him. He was safe in the knowledge that the Batman had too much moral pride to even consider pushing him over the edge and letting him fall to his death, though it would've been the case for any other soul.

The pair had been silent for a few moments after the Joker had led them on an extremely tiring chase up many flights of stairs that had ended with them atop the building. Batman had been especially surprised to see he'd somehow gotten comfortable and had begun feasting in the time it'd taken him to lug all that Kevlar up the stairs. The Joker had even offered the Batman a cherry from his palm, but he'd declined rather politely, given the circumstances, and the Joker had merely shrugged, taking another from his hand and eating it thoughtfully.

Since then, they'd been at a stalemate, Batman merely watching him eat, strangely unsettled by the Joker's lack of action. The lights from the cars below still offered some sort of relieving visual aid; his pasty white face was still slightly visible, and the waxing moon did nothing to hide the shine in his homicidal eyes. But the shine was the only thing homicidal on the Joker at the present; he was still inactive and merely eating, reclined on the building's edge, a hair's breadth away from death yet certain in his survival. He suddenly smiled.

"Y'know," the Joker muttered nonchalantly, examining a cherry in the dark before tossing it over the edge of the building. "I'm glad I chose you, Batsy. Otherwise I wouldn't be sitting here. I'd either be sitting in the mayor's chair or on the ground, a long way below." He placed his elbows on his knees and rest his chin in his hands, smiling at the Batman. "Whatever would I do without you?"

"No doubt terrorise those who don't deserve it," he hummed in his low growl, not daring to stalk closer to the Joker without knowing what his intentions were. He was a spontaneous enemy, that was for certain, and so he constantly kept his guard, especially in situations such as these, when they were in close quarters and anything was possible.

The Joker seemed to consider his suggestion before scoffing and popping another cherry in his mouth. "You know me so **well**, and that'd be halfway right, if it wasn't so painfully obvious why I do it in the first place." He stood up and threw the entire handful of cherries over the edge, not even turning to watch them fall. He brushed his violet gloves on his trench-coat and dusted himself off, as if trying to look presentable. After visibly straightening his posture, he looked at Batman, and he had a sudden rush of adrenaline that meant the moment was coming, the moment he always had with the Joker; a harsh decision followed by swift retribution.

"Oh, Batman," the Joker sighed comfortably, as if they were old friends. "I knew this day would come." He took two steps forward, casually and slowly, as if strolling in the park or watching the stars.

Reminiscent to a dance, Batman took two steps backward. "What day?" he asked cautiously, bracing himself to quell a lunge. He wasn't frightened, but his senses were on fire. He tried his hardest to tune in to these senses and to block out all else. He was acutely aware of the exit behind him.

The Joker stopped walking suddenly and held his arms out, mouth dropping open and eyes growing wide, as if his birthday had been forgotten and he'd had to remind the Batman. "Why, didn't you know?" He let out a frustrated growl, taking two more hasty steps; Batman again maintained the distance between them by mimicking him backwards. "I can't believe nobody informed you that today was the day I'd remove your mask! What imbeciles." He looked sincerely disappointed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out what appeared to be a detonator. Before Batman could even blink, he pressed the button.

An explosion sounded from a ways away, and Batman whirled around to see it, finding a large plume of smoke and flame rising in the air. He scaled over his mental map, wondering what could have possibly been rigged to explode. Realising that the smoke was coming from near all the warehouses—where people most certainly wouldn't be at this time of night, at least not good people—he let himself have a small shred of relief. Still, when he turned back to the Joker, who had turned to see the flames himself but was looking at Batman, he scowled angrily.

"What was that for?" he asked, sounding almost like an angry kid who'd had his sand-castle kicked over.

The Joker shrugged noncommittally. "I was… firing a few people." He laughed at his pun. Batman, however, was not amused.

"You're mad," he growled angrily. "People aren't just disposable—"

He felt a blunt blow hammer into his side as he was tackled to the ground. He damned his stupidity as he wrestled with the seemingly ungraspable Joker on top of him, who had almost instantly gotten him pinned under his body. "That's where you're—wrong, Basty," he mumbled, pausing when Batman tried to knee him in the gut. He wrestled with his straining arms as he continued. "Everyone's disposable. Everyone in this business is replaceable. Except for one person." He finally stopped Batman's opposing hands and leaned in low over his face. The clouds inched toward the moon as the smoke from the explosion ran over them, tainting their nostrils with a bitter stench. Fire sirens wailed into the night. The Joker demanded his attention by snapping. Batman foolishly responded, scolding himself in his mind. The Joker continued.

"The captain, Batsy. You can't replace the captain of the other team. At least, not as well." He pinched Batman's wrists with one hand while he moved his other to the Batman's throat, where the cowl began. The Batman gave a final struggle before the Joker pinched the edge, before taking a knife from his pocket and thrusting it in. The safety mechanism in the mask shorted in the knife, which remained, oddly, safe in the Joker's grip. He looked at the confusion in the now worried Batman's eyes. "Rubber handle, Bat-boy. Oh-so handy when you're working with fickle, frustrating types."

Batman's eyes narrowed and he renewed his struggle, to no avail. The Joker was already grasping the cowl, trying to wrench it off, but Batman gained the upper hand as the Joker's grip loosened on his wrists, and his hands instantly flew to the Joker's head, twisting him off of him as he tried to stand, but the Joker lunged with the knife, and he hardly had time to react, feeling it prick twice into the tough Kevlar. He instantly raced toward the door, only to be jumped on from behind. He nearly felt the Joker's thick breathing through his cowl as the knife swept by his throat, only scratching the cowl. He twisted quickly, throwing the Joker off his back before he ditched the plan with the door and quickly jumped off the building, grasping his cape as he did so. He soared through the air, his heart pounding, his adrenaline slowing as he realised he was safe. He only just barely caught the Joker's parting words as he soared away.

"Merry Christmas, Batman!"

* * *

><p>When Alfred had finished wrapping the broken wrist Bruce had sustained from his night out, the two had settled before a fire, Alfred insisting he drink hot cocoa over his request for coffee, and when that was settled, they fell into a relaxed state. Bruce stared into the flame, seemingly pensive about something. Alfred watched for a moment before leaning forward into his chair and addressing his young master accordingly. "Is something the matter, Master Wayne?"<p>

Bruce jumped, as if startled, and looked at Alfred warily. After a few moments of measured silence, he looked back into the flame. "Nothing, Alfred," he lied rather terribly, eyes once again glazing over as he sunk into deep thought. Alfred, not to be deterred, inquired once more.

"Are you certain, Master Wayne?" Bruce looked at Alfred once more, a 'no' no doubt ready on his lips, but, to Alfred's shock, he sighed wearily and rubbed his brow with the heel of his palm.

"I'm just thinking on something the psychopath said," he hummed tiredly, looking back at the fire, balancing the hot chocolate in his hand as he bounced his knee slightly. None of this went unnoticed by Alfred, who knew only the Joker and his antics could give Bruce a tic. Alfred knew not to push him into responding; Bruce would just curl up again and refuse to say a word. He always did.

After a moment, he continued by his own accord. "You remember that old friend I had from school, right Alfred?" he looked at Alfred again, who nodded quietly, face concentrated in listening to his burdens. "Well, I remember the last time I'd seen him. He was just in a bad place, and I was just so pissed off at him at the time, I can remember. I'd just said what was on my mind and he'd said, 'well… Merry Christmas, Bruce,' in this tone I can't even pin a description on. It sounded like a twisted mix of disappointment and glee…"

He shook his head quickly, as if shaking an image from his mind. "No, even that doesn't do it justice. But I'd never even seen him again after that. And then the psychopath says it in the same damn way tonight, 'Merry Christmas, Batman,' and I swear I would've gone crazy had I not had home and coffee on my mind." Here, he snuck a playful glare at Alfred, who dismissed it, knowing Bruce was trying to change the subject again. He knew Bruce had more on his mind than just that phrase. He prodded in one direction, trying to seek the right answer.

"Why were you angry with your friend…" he paused to remember his name. It'd been many long, trying years since Bruce Wayne's high-school education came to a close. "Joseph, wasn't it?" Bruce nodded curtly, and he knew he'd gotten the answer correct. He prepared himself to face whatever resistance Bruce would put up, but to his surprise, it came easily spilling out.

"He was going fucking nuts," he replied, evidently tried by this information; he usually tried to rein in his cursing around Alfred out of some everlasting respect for his guardian. "He was so great at first, when I met him in ninth grade; he was just like every other guy, except his hilarious sense of humour, and he was going to go into advertising as a graphic artist. I remember, because he'd always paint little pictures on notebook paper using exploded pens. He collected those like it was going out of style." He grinned, but it was weighed down. Alfred took this small intermission to fetch the brandy, filling up a glass and placing it in Bruce's hand, removing the hot chocolate. Bruce nodded a small thank-you and tipped his head back, draining the shot-glass in one fell swoop.

As Alfred returned to his seat, Bruce resumed talking. "The craziness started in our junior year, and I suppose that's where it all ended, too," he recalled lazily, going lax in his chair. The fire roared before them as Alfred made himself comfortable, intrigued by this sudden insight. It seemed to have been bothering him for much longer than he'd let on.

* * *

><p>His name was Joseph Crowley; he was sixteen in their junior year, having known Bruce for an entirety of three years. He had shaggy brown hair that he paid little attention to, usually tying back what little he could, and artist's hands, which were usually sketching instead of taking notes. His chocolate eyes were legendary with wooing the ladies, and his quick smiles were even more potent at stealing hearts.<p>

The craziness had not begun yet when Bruce, taking notes diligently, felt a crumpled sheet of paper hit the side of his head in late November. Peeved, he stared at the bundle on the floor before looking up at Mr Hage, who was still jotting notes on the board and had his back to them. He searched the crowd of his fellow students for the culprit, and his flaming anger suddenly fizzled to a cooling ember when he noticed Joseph's eyebrow-waggle and finger pointed directly at himself, the mouthed 'it was me' being a not-so-subtle display of his ownership of that paper. He then pretended to pull a paper open, eyes never leaving Bruce's. Bruce got the hint and quickly leaned down, snatching the paper ball from the floor. He held it on his desk and hastily smoothed out the paper to avoid making too much noise. Opened, it read, in scrawling handwriting:

_Hey, Brucey. Hage decided to stop being an asshole and let me off of detention, so we can hang out after school. _

He looked back at his friend, who winked in a suggestive manner. Bruce resisted laughter, grinning in spite of himself and jotting a new note on the paper before crumpling it quietly and chucking it back at his friend quickly, resuming his note-taking from where he'd left off.

_It's WAYNE to you. And that's cool, so we can meet up at the basketball game or something? Alfred wouldn't mind. _

Mr Hage turned around and began to lecture on what he just wrote down, but did not catch the duo's blatant discussion.

When he'd turned once more to write new information on the board, the paper once again pegged Bruce on the ear, and he marvelled at his seemingly un-athletic friend's accuracy as he opened it and read it.

_Fine, Brucey WAYNE, but does it HAVE to be basketball? You know I'm not into those guys, they look ridiculous and the object of their sport is dull and uninteresting._

Bruce quickly retorted with another scribble—_it's not dull and uninteresting, it's a science all on its own—_ and a successful and discrete throw, this time hitting Joseph in the eye. Bruce nearly laughed as Mr Hage turned around and noticed Joseph grasping at his eye, the note hidden where it had dropped into his lap.

Mr Hage was less amused. "Is something the matter, Mr Crowley?" he asked curtly, apparently uninterested in his student's welfare and more focused on the fact that without one eye, he could not pay as much attention. _'As if he paid any attention anyway,' _Bruce thought on a chuckle.

"Nay, Mr Hage," Joseph said in a poncey English accent, and Mr Hage hesitated before turning once more, resuming his chicken scratch. The note, this time, skittered across Bruce's desk and landed on the other side, on the floor. He picked it up and read it, shaking as he tried to hide his laughter.

_As if I needed any more science after Mr Hage's bullshit. And OW, Wayne, OW. You fucked up my accuracy. I'd been training for this moment for weeks, and you go and pull a dick move like that._

The next two note throws were close calls, but the message was finally completed.

_ C'mon, Joseph. Alfred won't let me go anywhere else._

_ …Alright, Wayne. But it's only because you said you were sorry._

The bell rang exactly when Bruce looked up at Joseph's impressive grave deadpan.

This time, he did not hide his laughter.

* * *

><p>They met around four, when the game was to start, in front of the gym doors, instantly heading inside. It had only taken twenty minutes before Joseph was walking back out and Bruce was trying to catch up.<p>

"Jay," he said, using Joseph's preferred nickname—Bruce had learned that Joseph hated the nickname 'Joe' or any of its variations by sheer happenstance, seeing Joseph deck one kid in the face after calling him 'Joey'—"Jay, you can't seriously be walking out now! The game just started fifteen minutes ago!"

Joseph harrumphed noncommittally and soldiered on, heading to their favourite spot; the school's tennis courts, where he usually drew likenesses of people in chalk on the ground for fifty cents. He didn't care much for money. "I don't like sports, Bruce."

"I know you don't, Jay," he replied, heavily disappointed. He'd been trying to get Jay to sit through one game with him for a while now, only to be shot down every time by the same excuses. Bruce listed them off now, mechanically, as if he'd been ordered to memorise them. "It's crowded, there's too much noise, the concessions suck—"

"—and those stupid cheerleaders keep hitting on me."

This gave Bruce some pause. He looked at the still-stalking Joseph before letting loose a very articulate 'huh?', which got Joseph to giggle just slightly.

"I said those cheerleaders were hitting on me. Before the game, they were tugging on my hair. Especially that Amanda one. Doesn't she know when to quit?"

Bruce thought on it. He didn't see this happen. Where had he been? He'd sat with Jay and chatted for a moment about Gotham High's school colours—Jay on the thought that they should be green and purple, and Bruce more on the thought of black and yellow—before Jay had proclaimed his hunger. He'd offered to go grab them something, and after taking orders, he'd gone to get Starburst and Skittl—oh. _'I was gone,' _he thought, _'I was getting concessions. They must've taken that as their opening.'_

He looked back at Jay, looking extremely apologetic. Joseph smiled and shrugged, and the two stepped onto the hard asphalt of the tennis courts, sitting down on it and looking up at the buildings surrounding them. The only sound that permeated the night was the sound of Gotham's constant motion.

The pair sat in silence for a moment before unconsciously leaning back together and looking up at the starless night. All nights in Gotham were starless, and it seemed to have an effect on Joseph; he drew the stars constantly, and made it a point to include them in nearly every picture of his. They stared up into the sky and remained quiet for a few moments.

"You know, Amanda's pretty hot," Bruce said, tired of the silence. "You should probably take that into account." Joseph turned to Bruce and cocked a brow. He looked extremely amused.

"So you're saying that's a trait of some merit? Geez, Brucey, I didn't think you were like that." He grinned, then, cheekily, and Bruce knew his next sentence would be a humorous one. "I guess that's what comes with being rich, eh, Bruce? Hot babes and equally hot cars. Just don't step on us little people once you get up there, eh?"

Bruce frowned, turning on his side to look at Joseph, but he was once again staring at the sky. "Hey," he mumbled, and Joseph's eyes flicked to him. They betrayed a hint of sadness. "You're coming with me."

Joseph scoffed, looking at the sky. "Please, Bruce; I'm not you," he said pointedly, as if that made any sense at all. "I don't have the kind of patience you do. You're analytical, and you like to think. And you're a fucking genius." Bruce grinned, his ego pumped, but it deflated as Joseph continued. "I'm not like you. I've hung my hopes on the hardest business to get through; arts. My connections are strictly the art teacher and a guy I took painting lessons from. And I'm not nearly as wealthy as you. I sometimes wonder why you even came to this school." He turned entirely to Bruce as Bruce had turned entirely to him, and he smiled sadly. "You got me beat on all counts. You're gonna take off and get places, Wayne, and I'm going to watch you soar from the ground, where I belong."

Bruce stayed still for a moment, looking at Joseph Crowley's haggard face before grinning. "You've got another connection you didn't mention." Joseph furrowed his eyebrows, not understanding. Bruce put his hand over Joseph's and his grin bloomed into a smile. "You got Bruce Wayne. And Bruce Wayne says you're a fucking good artist who should seriously do some advertising or he'll blow shit up."

Joseph paused before he finally laughed hysterically, rolling over onto his side, then back again, as Bruce smiled at him. He loved his laugh, truthfully; Joseph's laugh was liberating, and it made Bruce unafraid to smile. It made him forget that his inheritance was looming around the corner. It made him forget Princeton and Cornell, made him forget Harvard and Wayne Enterprises; made him forget that night, long ago, alone in an alley, when the opera made him frightened and his fright killed his parents.

"Wayne," Joseph panted comfortably, smiling at Bruce widely and breaking his train of thought. His smile. What a wonderful smile. "Wayne, you're the greatest."

Bruce chuckled. "Yeah, I know." He sat up as Joseph snorted, hitting him lightly in the ribs from where he still lay on the ground. "Now, c'mon," he said, standing entirely, prompting Joseph to sit up, "we're gonna work on your low self-esteem by getting you a hot date to the dance tomorrow."

Joseph laughed, allowing himself to be tugged to his feet by the slightly-stronger Bruce Wayne. "Oh? And who will that date be, pray tell?"

Bruce grinned like a maniac. "Amanda Henderson."

"How did I know?"

* * *

><p>Friday was the night of the dance, and Bruce had been about to go home when he was approached at his locker by none other than Joseph Crowley, blushing the brightest shade of red and rubbing the back of his neck. Bruce instantly took this as a sign of failure to acquire Amanda Henderson's participation in escorting him to the dance, but to his surprise, Joseph said it was a successful ordeal, and he was only chagrined that he had actually done it.<p>

Bruce laughed as he organised his locker briefly. It was in his nature to do that; he'd become a little obsessive after his parents died. "C'mon, Joseph, it can't be all that bad," he said, putting his Chemistry book down and swapping it for Government. "I mean, I'm taking Rachel Dawes to the dance, so we can kind of double-date if you don't want to be alone."

"Bruce, I'm used to going stag. With you," he added, as if that was supposed to mean anything more. Bruce didn't take it as such and just snorted, zipping up his backpack and donning his coat. He shut his locker and twirled the number pad on the lock before turning to Joseph, who had his favourite ratty coat hanging on his shoulders, his frame wraith-like thanks to its bulk.

"For the love of God, Joseph, it's the same thing as going stag!" he laughed as Joseph's lips pinched into a tight line. He was really nervous about this. "Except, y'know, we don't dance to slow songs or kiss at the end of the night."

Joseph physically balked. His face instantly paled and his pupils dilated. "Oh, Christ, I have to kiss her?"

Bruce was annoyed. He chewed his lower lip and quickly looked down, fishing through his pocket for his cell-phone. He was going to have Alfred fix him a shirt and some slacks. He might even ask him to get Joseph an outfit, too. Alfred was good with that kind of thing. "Calm down, Masochist Nelly," he said, focused on trying to get a signal in the dismal school hallway. "Don't worry yourself. You can ride with me to my house and we can see what Alfred can get for you. It's semi-formal and we're going to look impressive for our ladies."

"It's Negative Nelly… Bastard…" Bruce looked up, ready to retort, but Joseph's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he stumbled. Bruce instantly dropped his things, reaching for Joseph and grasping his forearm, inevitably sliding with Joseph's dead weight. He was little help in stopping Joseph's head hitting the floor with an audible smack, but he did instantly cradle him close and call for Alfred. Alfred arrived diligently, helping him carry Joseph to the car, and they headed to the mansion.

(Alfred did not fail to recall that day as Bruce spoke of it, but he did know a lot more than Bruce let on; Bruce failed to mention how he stroked Joseph's hair all the way there, how he never left the side of the bed until he came around an hour later, and how he forsook a bit of his dinner to feed the shaking junior. Alfred did not interrupt, however, and Bruce continued the tale.)

The two had gotten ready in silence, and Bruce smiled as he straightened his shirt and looked over to Joseph, who was still fidgeting over every little thing. Bruce laughed and approached him, taking his shaking fingers off the buttons of his dress shirt and undid a few. "You skipped three buttons, Jay." He buttoned his shirt carefully, noticing the young man was still trembling. He pretended not to notice, working the buttons as if nothing was amiss. Bruce stepped back and smiled at his handiwork, noticing Joseph's hands fly to tuck in his shirt, as Bruce had done. Bruce quickly struck his hand out, grasping Joseph's wrist firmly in his hand, making the teen halt and look up at him through dark hair and beautiful lashes. Bruce was struck, but hid it well, pulling his shirt out with his free hand while his other still grasped Joseph's wrist.

"Leave it," he said behind a smirk, finishing his job. "It looks good that way."

Joseph nodded, looking very much like a kicked puppy, and Bruce resisted the urge to trace calming circles into his wrist. They stood there in stunned silence before Joseph opened his mouth to say something.

"Boys?" Alfred called, and Bruce jerked away as if burnt, Joseph pushing his hair away from his face hastily. Bruce ventured a look at him only after Joseph had paused, and nodded to him before heading out of the room. Joseph followed wordlessly.

Alfred was waiting for them, a smile in place. "We're to pick up the ladies, are we not?" he asked, and Bruce plastered on a smile, nodding and grasping his coat from Alfred's hands, twirling it on as he headed for the door. (Alfred recalled believing they'd had a spat, having known that if Bruce would not betray any emotion, the young, expressive Joseph certainly would; what he'd gathered from that expression was not what he'd hoped to see.)

The ride in the limousine was not what it usually was, the conversation betwixt the two amiable friends shorter and choppier than it should have been. Alfred pretended to overlook it, and they picked up Rachel Dawes and Amanda Henderson promptly, getting them to the dance in time to be 'fashionably late'. (Alfred recalled the fear that gripped Joseph's eyes, even as he smiled, arm around Amanda's waist.) Bruce told him precisely what time to pick them up, and then Alfred was gone, and they headed inside.

Bright lights flashed aimlessly in the darkness and pounding music coursed through the room, and Bruce instantly whisked Rachel away into the night, ready to party. The two pairs had easily gotten by, and by the time it was just the two of the boys, they'd had a lot to tell one another. Arranging for Joseph to stay the night was easy, and the pair was instantly sitting in Bruce's room, a plate of cookies between them (for Alfred saw the fear that still lingered there, and his cookies were sublime). The air was cleared of any previous awkwardness, and they began talking.

"You first, Jay, because I know this is a first for you and a lot probably happened," he said suggestively, and Joseph laughed, but it was tinged with nervousness.

"Well, I did all you told me to do, Wayne," came the hesitant reply. "I made jokes and I laughed a little bit. I just tried to be my 'usual, dashing self," he muttered teasingly, earning a genuine smile from Bruce. "I didn't smirk, like you do all the time at school, you snarky bastard. And I got her a drink and danced with her, and I kissed her goodnight. And you wanna know what she did?" Bruce's smile grew wider as he listened in earnest to see how his efforts paid off. "She kissed me right back and asked, 'hey, can I be your girlfriend?' And d'you wanna know what I said?" He didn't wait for a response; he just threw his arms out and proclaimed it. "I said yes, damnit!" With that, he flopped backward and covered his eyes with his hands. Bruce, meanwhile, was bouncing off the walls.

"Hallelujah!" he cried, jumping on top of his friend and grabbing his hands, pulling them away from his eyes. "No need to be embarrassed, Jay, that's more action than I got tonight! C'mon, let me see your face!" Joseph conceded, and Bruce's smile grew. Jay was bright red, from his chin to the tips of his ears. He found himself wondering exactly how far down that blush stretched, but stopped himself as he sat up, releasing his prisoner and going for a cookie. "So, what to do now, eh?" He watched as Joseph sat upright and looked, with a slightly bummed expression, at his feet. "What are you going to do with Amanda?"

"I don't know," Jay admitted, sounding lost. He paused a moment before he whispered his sacred revelation to his closest friend. "I've never had a girlfriend, Bruce." Bruce spluttered, covering his mouth to avoid spraying cookie morsels on his bedspread.

"You haven't?" He watched Joseph's shake of the head. Damn. He wasn't kidding, either. He always got a sparkle in his eye when he was joking; that sparkle was a tell-tale sign he was pulling one over on you. But the sparkle was missing here. No, he was being honest. And, judging by how he pulled himself closer, he could tell he was frightened, too.

Bruce set down his cookie and inched toward Joseph. "Hey, no need to get sad," he mumbled, tugging on his friend's sleeve. "You've got me, Bruce Wayne, handsome devil extraordinaire; I can help you, no problem." He tried to garner a grin at his joke, but Joseph looked at him quite helplessly, and he sighed, tugging on his sleeve again. "C'mere, Jay." Joseph complied, leaning into Bruce's side. "I'll give you a brief overlook of what to do with your lady when she's around. No worries. You're not alone."

Joseph smiled slightly. "Thanks, Bruce. It means a lot."

Bruce sighed, feeling rather guilty for putting his friend in this fix. "Yeah, no problem, Joseph. Anytime."

* * *

><p>Over the weeks that followed, Bruce noticed his friend growing happy once more, and it didn't come with the news that Amanda had dumped him, or vice versa. Pretty soon, it was December 15th, and Christmas was nearing the bend. Bruce had come to visit Joseph at his locker just before lunch, a smile on his face.<p>

"Hey, Jay," he said, watching as Joseph's head looked up and he smiled, slamming his locker shut and holding his sketchbook close. Ink stained his fingertips. He smiled at Bruce.

"Hi, Brucey," he joked, pushing his hair back and miraculously not smearing ink on his face. Bruce leaned against the nearby locker and grinned in a way that said he was plotting something. Catching on, Joseph narrowed his eyes playfully. "What are you plotting?"

Bruce's grin only split into a devious smile. "What're you getting Amanda for Christmas? Surely you know by now." Judging by Joseph's confused face, no, he had no clue what he was getting her. He probably didn't know that he was supposed to.

"…No," Joseph sounded out carefully, as if speaking to someone who could not detect confusion in enunciated syllables. "But I know what I'm getting you." He smiled guiltily, as if that would let him off the hook. No such luck.

"Tonight," Bruce declared, one hand in the air, pointer finger jutting skyward, "we're going shopping to buy Rachel and Amanda some Christmas presents. I know what you're thinking, and no, I'm not dating Dawes." Joseph grinned evilly, as if he knew of Bruce's deep desire to date Rachel. Which he did. "But she's one of my closest friends and I've never gotten her nothing for Christmas."

Joseph looked at Bruce for a moment before shrugging, heading toward the art room, his usual alternative to the lunchroom. The boy never seemed to eat. "Fine. I'll meet you at your locker at the end of school. I'm doing a project for Mrs Adams and I don't want to waste another second not working on it." Bruce smiled, accepting his obsession with art.

"See you then," he said, heading the opposite way. He was just mounting the staircase when he ran into Amanda, who looked breathless and starry-eyed.

"Hey, Amanda!" he greeted her jovially, and she grinned at him, giving a wave. "Looking for Joseph?"

"Yeah, I've got awesome news!" she said rather excitedly. "You seen him around?"

"Yeah, he's in the art room, working on a project." She grinned at him and waved once more before hastening there. As he resumed is walk to the cafeteria, Bruce's heart fastened to the hope that maybe the two would stay together for a long while, and things would work out for them. He knew Joseph had been hesitant, but he'd really been improving. Though Bruce didn't understand his nonchalance about Christmas shopping, but he supposed Joseph was not usually a shopping kind of guy. He let it slide; after all, it was an unusual experience for Joseph.

Lunch flew by in a blur as he sat with Rachel and her friends, and History finally rolled in. He sat in his usual seat, opening up his notebook and expecting Amanda to come in and sit next to Bruce, as she usually did, and tell him about what exactly had her so excited earlier, despite some previous vow to let Joseph tell him for once. Bruce waited, distracting himself with looking over some of the sketches he'd gotten from Joseph over the school year. When he heard the clicking of her heels on the floor, he looked up, expecting to see her smiling and shining; he was absolutely shocked to see her eyes streaming with tears and her right cheek swelling.

She trotted over to Bruce, head held high, and slammed her stuff down. Bruce instantly stood up and grasped her wrist, and she flinched, but began to cry harder as she was pulled comfortingly to him. "Amanda, what happened?" he asked. She shook her head, and the teacher, Mrs Erkson, looked over to them, her brow furrowing. She beckoned them over, and Bruce gently escorted Amanda to her desk, shielding her from prying eyes as more students filed into the room.

"Is something the matter, Amanda?" she asked, looking at Bruce sceptically, as if he'd been the one to make her infallible happiness deflate like this. Before he could defend himself, Amanda spoke out.

"Yes, can Bruce and I go to the mediator to talk about it?" she asked, still sobbing and wiping her eyes. Mrs Erkson sent Bruce one last look of distrust before conceding, and Bruce quietly thanked her before taking a few tissues and leading Amanda to the door and out into the hall.

The hall was cleared and a few doors were closing as Amanda burst firmly into tears, collapsing against the nearest wall. Bruce was struck by her sudden despair, and handed her a few tissues as he saw fit. After a few moments of sobs and silence, she spoke.

"I-I just, I'm sorry Bruce, I j-just…" she sniffled and accepted another tissue with a hushed 'thank you'. Bruce's frown was permeating the air, mingling with her sadness.

"What happened, Amanda?" he asked, kneeling next to her. She'd instantly gone into a defensive position down on the floor, her body curled in close as she fought the onslaught of tears that threatened to overtake her. "You were just so happy about that news you were going to tell Joseph."

She cried even harder, and a shock of ice threw itself through Bruce's veins. It had something to do with Joseph. His face hardened, his expression growing stony. He nudged her knee gently, laying his palm over it. "What'd he do, Amanda? You can tell me."

She shook her head, crying again, leaning closer to the wall. Bruce nudged her again, and she looked at him, normally beautiful eyes overflowing with tears. _'I could kill him,_' he thought, fighting to stay focused on her. It wasn't easy with murderous intent raining from his eyes.

She finally spilled to him, and what he heard, he didn't like. "I found him in the art room, like you said, and he was painting this picture of you, Bruce," she said nonchalantly, even though something bloomed within Bruce that he reckoned shouldn't be there. "So I snuck up behind him and greeted him, and he seemed amiable enough. We even talked for a while, and he seemed to be in a great mood. So I finally told him the news that we could take our relationship to the next level."

Bruce already knew that Joseph would not appreciate that. The one thing he abhorred cheerleaders for was their apparent smuttiness. He never exactly revelled in situations where he was proven right. She continued, though, all of that oblivious to her mind. "And he just went bat-shit crazy, like he was going to kill someone because of it!" She had another bout of sobbing before carried on. "He just started saying that he wouldn't be used like that, and he didn't want to do anything like that, and I thought he was kidding."

Bruce's ice turned into fire as his anger balanced between this oblivious slut and his frenzied, crazed friend. _'The light wasn't there,'_ he thought, _'the light wasn't in his eyes. I should've been there; I should've stayed with him.'_

Bruce tuned in noncommittally, if only to hear what his friend did next to defend his virtues. "So I tried to seduce him, jokingly, of course, and he jerked away from me like I was some animal! He raised his voice and shouted at me, telling me to get the hell away from him, and I got pissed, because he was overreacting, and I told him so, I told him he was a pussy, and he hit me!"

Her swollen cheek was a testament to the truth in that statement. A bruise was suddenly forming over her cheekbone, a dark, mottled purple; he'd become a complete wreck and attacked. He'd always been emotionally based, but not around Bruce, and he'd never done anything like that before, to Bruce's knowledge. _'While I was there,'_ he reminded himself, _'he never hurt anyone while I was around. Is this my fault?'_

She cried quietly, blowing her nose and dabbing her eyes and Bruce couldn't stand either one of them. "He told me we were through, and he took his painting and left, and I haven't seen him since." She sniffled, looking at Bruce and expecting pity. "Bruce, I don't know what got into him. I thought he'd be happy. My parents are going away for Christmas and I was going to be home alone. I thought now was the perfect time to take things to another level."

'_Well, you thought wrong, now didn't you?' _He handed her another tissue, his last one, in fact, before standing up and looking down the hall. Joseph would have Technical Sculpture now, actually, and he could catch him in there and talk to him about it. Mr Alex was always willing enough to let him talk things through during his class, considering Joseph's excellent marks. He started down the hall before he heard a strangled cry from behind him. He turned and looked, spotting Amanda halfway to her feet, trying to go after him. She was frozen in place, tears still streaming. "Where are you going, Bruce?"

"I'm going to talk to Joseph. What does it look like I'm doing?" he asked, feeling relatively peeved by this girl, who clearly had no sense and thought very little of what her ex-boyfriend actually thought.

"N-No, you can't!" she cried, slipping back to the floor. "I don't want him to know you found out. If he did—"

"What would happen to you if he did?" he said quickly, interrupting her before she descended into more mindless babbling. She tried to stand once more and failed once again, her eyes never leaving Bruce as he stood there impatiently, waiting for dismissal.

"He said—h-he said that—"

"What'd he say?" His interest was piqued entirely now.

She attempted to rise one final time before she collapsed onto the floor. She seemed exhausted. "He said he was going to kill me."

Bruce froze, not completely understanding what she just said. _'Surely he couldn't have been serious,' _he thought to himself, feeling his body grow numb as he calculated the implications of that one, simple phrase. _'He's never said anything remotely like that before.'_

"I'm still going to talk to him," he said in a darker tone, heading down the hall. "I'm not going to say anything about what just happened here," he added over his shoulder, and whatever retort was coming, whether there was one or no, ceased entirely in its tracks. He headed swiftly down the stairs to Mr Alex's class, a stony expression plastered on his face, his lips pressed in a dark, grim line. With his pace, he arrived at Mr Alex's in record time, and knocked politely before opening the door.

The quaint little knock he used on the door was lost to the din of the workshop; it was abuzz with many a mechanical noise as sculptors used all forms of mechanical devices and tools to create art. Amid the crowd of students wielding blow-torches and glass glue, he spotted Joseph, who looked as in his element as he could've possibly been. His hair had been pulled back with more effort, and his eyes were sparkling, even though his expression was one of muted concentration. He was wearing a smock made of a clear garbage bag, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his hands covered in clay. He was moulding something from it, taking his time and making delicate motions with his hands, carving out tiny niches with tools as mundane as toothpicks. Bruce marvelled silently at the peace within his eyes when suddenly Joseph looked up, a confused expression taking on his features as he glanced about. The expression faded away as his gaze landed on Bruce, and he actually smiled. Bruce almost felt bad as he walked further into the room and tapped on Mr Alex's shoulder, requesting a word with Joseph for a few moments.

"Certainly," the jovial man said, helping a student operate a welder, "just as long as he keeps working. He's almost done and I want him to finish today so he can write up his report tomorrow." Bruce nodded, sufficing with that, and he moved over to Joseph, who watched him come with a small smile.

He leaned against the table, watching Joseph's gentle fingers work the fine clay between his hands. "What are you making, Jay?" he asked, watching as Joseph's hand slowly morphed the smaller end of the clay object, leaving whatever he was stencilling on the other end to wait.

"I'm making a human heart," he replied with a smile, and he held up his sculpture with a smile on his face. Bruce was awed by the complexity and the sheer wonder of the heart that he was holding in his hands. He was, indeed, holding a pale, grey-tan heart in his cupped hands. A few veins stuck out of the otherwise smooth surface, and the thick arteries at the top were slightly hollowed at the top to give them depth, as if they were indeed open. The ventricles and atriums weren't traced out yet, but he had a feeling that's what he'd interrupted his friend in the midst of. It almost seemed to beat as he rotated it in his palms, to allow Bruce to view it better. His smile grew. "I'm quite proud of it. I've never been good at 3-dimensional sculpture."

"I like it," Bruce said, tempted to almost stroke the statue, but left it as it was resting in Joseph's hands. He knew what he had to do, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Still, Joseph's prompt caused him to speak up.

"What brings you to Tech, Brucey?" he asked jokingly, picking up a toothpick and gently carving out a very small, almost unnoticeable hollow in the heart. A vein would no doubt go there. "I doubt you suddenly found your artistic side, but I can hope so, right?"

Bruce laughed, but kept his even gaze on Joseph's chocolate eyes. "No; sorry to disappoint, Joseph. I just saw Amanda crying in History, and I wanted to ask if you knew what was going on." Judging by the acute muscle-spasm that happened as he spoke before he resumed his sculpting, Bruce would think he did indeed know. Joseph stayed quiet, drawing what appeared to be another vein on the surface of the heart before answering. He leaned low, pinching the clay to give it a softer texture. He finally spoke, but his voice had changed from the jocund teasing it held before to a stoic, solemn tone that only held foreboding in its depths.

"I think I know what happened," he said quietly. "If that's what you're asking."

Bruce leaned in closer to him. "Well, then, I'd love to hear the story, if you'd be so kind as to reiterate."

Joseph looked into Bruce's eyes, his own gaze wary. It was apparent that he knew that Bruce knew; and so he would become more thoughtful in his responses, if only to soften the blow on himself.

"She provoked me."

A pause. "How?"

"She mentioned having sex."

"And what'd you say?"

"I said I wasn't into that."

"Did she receive the news well?"

"No, she began insisting." He tried to get the conversation back into less serious ground by uttering, as he stood up straighter, "Not all guys think with their dicks, Wayne."

"Yeah," Bruce conceded, turning and facing the opposite way, leaning backward against the workbench, "and not all guys think with their fists, either."

A toothpick snapped behind him, and he turned to see Joseph had broken a toothpick, the tip slightly driven into his ink-stained, clay-covered fingertip. He removed it mercilessly, sparing himself no pain and setting the toothpick on the table, watching the blood run down his finger. He made no move to remove the blood or clean the wound. His reply was soft, and sounded positively scared.

"I was scared, Wayne."

"We all get scared sometimes, Joseph. But we don't just hit people."

"She wouldn't back down!" he raised his voice a little, but no one around was perturbed. They all continued as they were, nobody seeing the urgency in his eyes. "I kept saying no, she kept saying yes, and she was touching me; she wouldn't leave, Wayne, and you know I'm claustrophobic—damnit, what was I to do, agree to it?"

Bruce stared him down, head-on. "No, you were supposed to make your point succinctly and non-violently, you…" he calmed himself before he grew angrier, pressing his hand to his temple and rubbing gently to expel any oncoming headache that would no doubt attack now, when he least needed it. "And then you said you were going to kill her—"

"I was joking." The hard look in his eyes suggested otherwise. Entirely otherwise, in fact. It scared the bejesus out of Bruce, who'd never seen his friend so serious. It made him doubt everything, all the things he'd previously said.

They stayed silent for a while. Finally, Joseph spoke. "I don't like girls, Bruce."

Bruce just stood from his lean. "As if that's any excuse." He gained no reply. He didn't need one. He stayed silent for a moment before he finally gave up. "You take good care of that heart, alright?" He walked away.

Even though he didn't look back, he knew Joseph was watching him leave.

* * *

><p>Bruce was laying in his bed on Christmas Eve when a knock on his window startled him. He opened it and let in a soaking wet and freezing Joseph Crowley, whom he hadn't talked to since the Fifteenth of December, and whom he'd been thoroughly angry with.<p>

He'd been getting involved with the wrong crowd since Bruce had left him to his fate in that workshop that day. He'd seen Joseph around those guys—the girl with the slicked-back hair, the guy with the long fingernails and the angry looking youngster—and immediately mourned the loss of him, even going so far as to draw stars on his homework papers. He reminisced, for those whole ten days, the times they'd had, because he was, admittedly, lost without Joseph as well, and who would he be without Joseph? Certainly a lot more sad.

But he'd had time to stew in his own juices, and so he'd gone from disappointed, to depressed, to blatantly angry in very little time at all. He was ready to wring Joseph's neck and he knew exactly how he'd do it. He was pissed that he'd joined those bad kids, pissed because he'd left some kind of mental scar on Amanda, who rarely spoke anymore, pissed because his grades had been slipping again, pissed that all of this bullshit and the lack of his daily dose of Joseph kept him awake at night, and pissed because he knew he was probably stealing, or mugging people, or doing drugs, or something illegal and downright UN-JOSEPH-LIKE and that was blasphemy and _my God, I am gonna __**kill **__this sonovabitch!_

"You've got precisely ten minutes before I throw you out." Bruce's voice was set in stone. _'That was supposed to come out as five minutes.'_

Joseph looked up from where he was a mass of soaking clothes on the floor. He had a raggedy bag on the ground next to him and his favourite coat was slung over his shoulders. He looked like hell. "Bruce, I won't waste any time," he said, trying to stand, but it was obvious he couldn't, whether or not he'd eaten in the past week being unapparent but very guessable. He finally accepted his seat on the floor by the window and began talking. "Bruce, I realise we haven't been getting along these past few weeks, and I think I know it's because of what I did to Amanda." And then a look crossed his eye, a crazed look Bruce knew he must've worn when he hit Amanda. "But the stupid bitch deserved it—"

"Eight minutes," Bruce said, not liking where this was going. He was still standing, arms akimbo, because he'd been told he looked most threatening this way. But Joseph wasn't backing down. Not this time; not anymore.

Joseph huffed, but continued on. "I told you I hate women, they're a waste of fucking breath and time. And I hate the bastards I'm with right now, and I just want—" He was once again reminded of the time. "—to be with you, Bruce, because I miss you, and they're not like you. They're making me indulge in the feelings and—I think I need to see a psychiatrist, Bruce, because I'm—"

"You need to what?" Bruce asked, taken aback. "No, you used to be so happy, you can't just say stuff like that and expect me to—"

"Wayne, I need to be with you."

"You are with me, Joseph."

"No, forever."

"Forever is a very long time."

"Can you put up with me forever?"

"Beyond forever, Jay."

"Then let's be together."

"What do you mean by b—?"

"I mean run away with me."

"Joseph, **no**."

Joseph leaned forward on the ground, his cheeks flushed from the cold, his body shaking from hunger. Bruce still recognised the boy before him, but only barely. And he was trying to save himself.

"Please, please, BruceIneedyouplease-!"

"I don't get why you're saying that, you don't—"

"IdoIdo**Ido**, Bruce, I can't function without you."

"That's not true, you did it for ten days—"

"You call this functioning?"

"What else do you call it, it certainly isn't living!"

Joseph leaned even further forward. "Bruce, please!"

"No, Jay! I can't go with you!"

Joseph stayed quiet before he reached into his back slowly, as if biding his time in Bruce's room. "Well, I kinda figured you'd say that, considering how much you love Alfred, and your home," he mumbled, and he pulled out a cylindrical object wrapped in Christmas paper. He held it out to Bruce. "I brought your gift with me, so I could give it to you before I said goodbye."

Bruce froze in place, so confused by all of this going on at once, and his guilt washed over him. "Oh, Joseph," he said quietly, sadly, and he took the item from his hands, setting it on the bed (waiting for Christmas). "I didn't get you anything, I was too…" He trailed off, hoping Joseph would understand. He did, smiling sadly instead.

"You can do me one favour, though."

Bruce smiled, quite used to this game. It happened a lot during their friendship, when they owed favours, and such. "Anything, naturally."

"Close your eyes for thirty seconds, and don't respond to anything I do."

Bruce nodded, apprehensive, and closed his eyes, still standing. How badly could he get beaten in thirty seconds? Not very, was his prognosis. He flinched, though, every time he heard that old coat shift, and he had counted up to twenty when he felt a small kiss on his lips.

It was very small but it meant very much, and it was gone just as soon as it came.

When Bruce opened his eyes ten seconds later, Joseph was seated again, looking quite like he did when he realised he had to kiss Amanda Henderson at the end of the dance. Bruce's expression was hard, his mind in a million places as all of his emotions finally came to a head.

"You fucking bastard!" he yelled, sick and tired of the confusion. "You can't just waltz in here and give me Christmas presents and tell me you need me and kiss me, you goddamn sonovabitch!" He glared for a moment before he continued his angry rampage. "You can't just hit women and frighten yourself into corners and smile at me so that I forget everything and—fuck you!" He threw his pillow at Joseph, but not with much conviction, for it was easily caught. "Fuck you, just fuck you, Crowley! And while you're at it, fuck yourself!" He threw another pillow. And another. Both were caught and deposited, and a small smile still decorated Jay's face, as if he wasn't starving, and as if he wasn't cold to the bone.

"Do you love me?"

Bruce stayed quiet, but was very sure he knew how to make a noose out of a hanger. Nobody would miss him, and he'd be happy to look upon Crowley's dead face hanging from his closet roof every morning... He stared, deadpan, at his feet. "I don't fucking love you, Crowley."

"Bruce Wayne, do you love me?"

Spoken with much more conviction, he actually looked at Joseph, and he saw the smile and felt it wash over him in waves. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Nearly, Jay. I nearly love you."

Joseph thought about it before his smile grew a little. "That's enough." Joseph nodded to himself before standing and mounting himself on the window. He turned to look one last time at Bruce Wayne. "Are you sure you don't want to run away with me?"

Bruce smirked. "Damn fucking sure."

Joseph's eyes dropped, but there was still that sparkle in them, though its meaning had shifted in the interim, when they'd been apart, when devils had come out to play. "Well… Merry Christmas, Bruce." And, with that, he jumped out the window and scaled down the rest of Wayne Manor.

Bruce was left in his room, freezing in his pyjamas and staring at his open window. He approached it and closed it, pulling the blinds. When he turned again, he noticed the cylinder-present on his bedspread. He approached it slowly and tugged on the bow, undoing it. He pulled the top off the present and pushed aside the tissue paper underneath. What he saw beneath it didn't shock him.

It was a beautiful, grey-tan heart that once rested in the palms of Joseph Crowley's hands. Attached to the largest artery was a card.

"_You take good care of that heart, alright?"_

The card responded:

_I did._

Bruce smiled through his tears.

"I fucking hate you."

* * *

><p>Bruce Wayne was highly inebriated when Alfred finally sent him to bed. "You're in no condition to report to that meeting tomorrow, Master Wayne," he said. "I shall call in and ask Mr Fox to take your place, yes? He will jot down all the necessary notes and such, no doubt." Bruce simply slurred his agreement and allowed Alfred to lead him into his bathroom, helping him brush his teeth cautiously and changing him into pyjamas. He placed him in his bed, turned off the lights and closed the door, knowing he'd be asleep in little to no time thanks to alcoholic aid.<p>

He returned downstairs to clean up the now empty bottle of brandy and the glass Mr Wayne was using, setting them both in the kitchenette to be washed. Instead of getting straight on it before retiring to sleep, he walked to a closet he used primarily for things he'd managed to rescue from the burning of Wayne Manor. He pulled it open and searched for the cylindrical container, still wrapped in mahogany wrapping paper, and when he found it, pulled the bow open once again and opened the top, looking inside.

Indeed, the heart was still there, and so was the card.

On the one side it said:

"_You take good care of that heart, alright?"_

And on the other:

_I did._

Alfred smiled despite himself.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Wayne."

* * *

><p>Hey, there. I gave the young Joker a name. Joseph Crowley. Hope you dunna mind. :)<p>

Also, I wanted to leave a soundtrack to what I listened to as I wrote this. I think the songs are as poignant as the story itself; they really shaped some of the scenes and gave it a feeling for me. I think it'd be good to listen to them. (Not in any specific order, I listened to them willy-nilly as I wrote this.)

Witness – Sarah McLachlan  
>Top of the Wagon – Mychael Danna and Jeff Danna<br>Suicide Attempt – Mychael Danna and Jeff Danna  
>The River – Mychael Danna and Jeff Danna<br>Escape from the Pub – Mychael Danna and Jeff Danna  
>Sympathy for the Hanged Man – Mychael Danna and Jeff Danna<br>Tony's Tale of Woe – Mychael Danna and Jeff Danna

Look out for a small epilogue to this massive short. It's something I'm playing with.

?ti si won ,ereht ton er'uoy fi reverof t'nsi reverof esuaceB

((What the hell is with my dividers? They're fucking ridiculous. I'll edit it later. Holy Jesus.))


	2. Epilogue

_Here's that epilogue I mentioned._

_Happy New Year!_

"Jiggity. Jiggity-jig."

He sat, snug in his strait-jacket, feeling very much like he belonged. He was leaning against a wall, a smile on his face, waiting for that lady to come and ask him questions. They always sent that same old lady to ask him the same old questions, to try to get the same old insight on his same old mind.

"Ohhh, love," he mumbled to himself, leaning his head back against the wall and looking up, "we're all thinking it."

"What are we thinking, Mr. Joker?"

The Joker raised his head and smiled rather viciously at the beautiful woman heading into the room. He'd already forgotten this doctor's name, because it honestly wasn't important; she was wan and youthful but infinitely patient. She wasn't like that Dr. Quinzel girl he'd been set with before; he'd heard she was fired, and he'd actually taken the time to personally thank every doctor in the place for getting rid of her. Only two of them shook his hand, he noticed; the others simply backed away from him and pretended to tend to anything else but him.

She sat down in a metal chair that screamed 'industrialism' and folded her hands on her lap, smiling gently. She was too young to be that old.

"We're all thinking about how we all deserve it, in the end," he said, grinning at his toes. They'd let him keep his shoes, even though the laces were missing. Small price to pay for luxury, he supposed. "The lodgings here aren't that great; the beds are swell but the food is stale. I'd give it a 3.5—good enough for anyone flying business class. Join me in my cell? Rooms fill up quick."

"What do we deserve, Mr. Joker?" she asked, and he looked up at her, his grin growing, if at all possible.

"Well, it's certainly not love, if that's what you're asking," he said in a slow fashion, as if trying not to lose the point mid-sentence. "We all deserve what we get in the end."

"And what do we get?"

"Retributioooon. I mean, think about it. Your petty life and my petty life are absolutely useless in the big scale of things. Not that I'm the kind of guy to go at things full-scale. It sounds like I intend to be successful."

"And you don't?"

"Not if you are a realist. Then you just go into things and pull out whatever tricks you've got and see who gets the last laugh. No matter how hard you try, sweetheart, the bottom line is the last laugh's always going to be with the pallbearers at your funeral, assuming you've got a few hands willing to carry you to your final place." He looked at her seriously, tilting his head downward and blinking twice. His tongue darted out unconsciously to lap at his lower lip. "Not many people can afford that luxury, anyhow, and not many people deserve it."

She leaned forward, but only slightly; she rested her dainty chin on her palms and asked yet another question. "The luxury of a proper funeral, you mean?"

He laughed. It was unprecedented but not unexpected. He laughed and laughed and laughed until his lungs screamed and he stared at the nurse once more through teary eyes. His make-up was a bit askew. He felt sublime. "Hands!" he said in the afterglow of his beautiful mirth, "the hands to carry you there! Most people in the world couldn't even afford the battery acid that they'd fall into. There's always going to be someone out there that hates you, and they're going to be the first to attend your funeral; and respectfully the last to leave. They're going to be the graffiti on your Mona Lisa; the scratches on your record; the kill to your joy. I've got a ton of those."

"You seem unaffected by it."

"I'm still laughing, aren't I? They haven't pushed me yet."

"Who would do it, though? Who would push you into that 'battery acid'?" She made it sound like some metaphor. He wouldn't waste the breath explaining that it wasn't.

"All the more breath to laugh with, my dear," he said fondly before his eyes hardened again, like semi-molten lava. He wiggled a bit as he thought, and then he spoke, resolution apparent in his entire entity. "The Batman."

She sat up entirely straight, looking at him with an intrigued look. Ahh, she was trying to poke into that avenue. "The Batman would kill you?"

He shrugged, as if it was an opinion he had and nothing more. "I'm not certain, and I don't care to find out. I'm more inclined to figure out other things about him; how my sublime little Batman came to be. You know we were meant to be, just like me and—"

Here, his breath caught, and a flash of humanity entered his low unconscious. He was assaulted with the sensation of freezing and starving simultaneously; but feeling the warmth of Bruce's breath over his face as he hovered not a millimetre from his lips, uncertain to take the final plunge and feeling all the more a coward for it.

The feeling disappeared rather slowly after that, like the sharp beginning and dull ending of a bruise inflicted on human skin. When he looked back at the nurse, she was surprised for the first time in months.

The Joker had always been intriguing; but as a new Psych major, she'd not been allowed into his cell, instead tending to other patients like Chill and other minor criminals. Slowly she'd wiggled her prowess into view and had gotten promoted, first to Falcone, then to Dr. Crane—and, finally, to the patient she'd wanted to see.

The Joker had used every weapon in his considerable arsenal to scare her away, as he had with Dr. Quinzel; he'd spoken of all the people he killed and why, and his considerably morbid reasons. When he'd finally realised she wasn't running away he'd begun saying things that were more true to his heart at the moment; she dared to even say he was getting used to her, though she'd never utter the phrase aloud. She was certainly getting used to him, though she was cautious not to absorb too much for fear of the nasty repercussions; like Dr. Quinzel's descent into mad insanity and love for the Joker, of which he was never told. Needless to say, it wouldn't serve his psychiatry well, and she was far too happy with where she was now to screw things up. She'd just gotten used to him.

But now he'd found another way to surprise her, and it was a first; the look in his eyes, tired and worn, and the slight frown on his face were not expressions commonly seen on the Joker's pale countenance. He looked like a man who had lost too much and gained too little in the interim of complete sanity and the now, sitting in Arkham Asylum wrapped in a strait-jacket and talking to a young nurse. He didn't look like the Joker.

She didn't want to break the spell, so she waited, expressionless. Better to not change and let him throw up his guard. She waited patiently for the next words, silently poising her pen over her clipboard. She'd already made notes, but this seemed to be of great importance.

"He'd promised me, you know," he said, thinking somewhere in the past. "And he said 'nearly', which was good enough for me at the time. I made him so mad, and I did some terrible things before then… But he promised me, and a promise is a promise. I sometimes think he might be the only one with both hands guiding me to the end, even though he's not with me anymore. I know he'd probably push me in battery acid too, if he were here. He'd help the Batman pull me into the fray and leave me…" He furrowed his brow. "It'd hurt more to have him do that to me. My usual remedy is to just kill him but I… I can't. Not him. Not the Batman."

After jotting this down quietly, she looked up at him slowly. "Why not? Why can you not kill him?"

He leaned his head back against the wall again, his eyes shut. He looked like a regular man fighting for whatever chance he got. "Because forever isn't forever if you're not there, now is it?"

She grew quiet. All of this made little sense… But she had no doubt that, in time, it could be properly deciphered. She looked at the little watch on her wrist and nearly groaned. Her hour was almost up. She stood from her chair, and the Joker's eyes snapped to her. Despite her feeling used to him, it still unnerved her, the keenness with which he watched her leave.

She stood behind her chair, clutching the clipboard to her chest, smiling faintly. "It's time for me to go, Mr. Joker." She headed slowly toward the door. "I will see you tomorrow," she added, "at the same time. Okay?"

"Don't rush yourself," he hummed jovially, snapped out of his trance. "Take all the time you neeeeed."

As soon as the door shut, he smiled once again to himself, trying to think of things to get his mind off of Bruce Wayne, when only Bruce Wayne could really make him happy. "Well," he thought aloud, "him and one other person."

At which point he smiled even wider, because he'd remembered something.

"Jiggity-jig."

When he'd tried to puncture that Kevlar mask he realised he had poked two holes halfway through the thick material and made a jagged curl with his knife.

He'd made a little smiley-face.

His laughter echoed the near-empty halls of Arkham Asylum.


End file.
